June Bugs
by jasmine105
Summary: One-shot. Horatio's thoughts as dusk turns to darkness on a night in June.


**June Bugs**

_Dusk_... the part of the dying day that always filled him with a sense of gloom. He turned off his car's ignition and sat there for a moment, parked in front of his house. A feeling of oppression washed over him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, his thoughts took on a cheerlessness that hinted at the long evening that lay ahead.

Horatio didn't mind darkness when it finally and fully descended. It was that silvery state of limbo that twilight always brought, the sense of being caught between two worlds, that disturbed him. Not really light, not really dark. Two worlds.

Sighing at his own foolishness, he slowly emerged from the car and wearily made his way to the front door. He paused on the front step, studying his house. In spite of his unease at the fading light, a yearning to linger outside and escape the house's cloying loneliness dissuaded him from putting the key to the lock. He really didn't want to go inside yet and face another Friday evening. Alone. He disliked Friday nights. They were simply a prelude to the two non-workdays that stretched dismally before him. Forlornly, he sat down on the front step and looked out into the deepening darkness.

In spite of his mood, he was forced to admit it was a beautiful summer's evening. There was a slight coolness in the approaching night air; the day's earlier crushing humidity had dissipated. In the distance he heard the voice of some child's mother coaxing the tardy youngster to come inside and get ready for bed. He smiled slightly at the sound.

There was something all too familiar about the sweet tones of a mother's voice calling out to her child. It awakened something in Horatio. A tender memory. He forced it back. He didn't want any tender memories just then. Not when he sat there, caught between two worlds.

His attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of dozens of fireflies. Their bright, teasing flashes of light bobbed in and out of the darkness. _June bugs. _Well, it was June.

His thoughts took on a melancholy cast, and he recalled the Junes of his childhood and the ever-present appearance of those fanciful creatures and their sudden bursts of illumination.

June in New York had always meant long, carefree days in which the summer sun lingered high in the sky. The neighborhood kids would gather at one of the local baseball fields for little league games and heated debates about the Yankees versus the Mets. There'd be block parties where the kids would eat hotdogs and potato chips, washing them down with icy, sugary colas. On too-hot days, the cops would look the other way while some enterprising father pried open the valve a fire hydrant and the kids frolicked in the streets, playing in the gushing water and getting a few minutes' respite from a sizzling, muggy day.

June bugs.

As a kid, Raymond had always been particularly intrigued by them... he called them 'lightning bugs.' Many times their mother would be looking for a glass jar to pour some leftover gravy or grease into, only to find all the jars missing; brother Raymond had used them to capture the little bugs. A visit to the boy's bedroom always disclosed a jar or two sitting on the nightstand, filled with a few lethargic captives, their once-bright bodies no longer lighting up... and, thus, no longer of any interest.

A bittersweet smile crossed Horatio's face at the memory.

The dusk weakened him. It weakened his resolve not to look back. Or maybe it was, again, that sense of being caught between two worlds.

Whatever it was, against his will, he found his thoughts drifting down the corridors of his past, preparing to open doors he normally kept closed. In his thoughts, he heard once again the too-eager, strident voice of his seven-year old brother: _Horatio! Horatio! Look at 'em all! They're lighting up the sky, Horatio!_

And they were, that long-ago June night. So many fireflies - nature's own fireworks show. Raymond ran about, jar in hand, jumping up and down in the velvet grayness of early evening, his little body frenetic in its attempts to capture and hold hostage a little of the light show.

_Don't be a dork_, he remembered saying to the excited boy. _They always die. Let 'em alone._

_It'll be different this time_, scowled Ray, indignant at this brother's lack of enthusiasm. _You just wait and see - it'll be different this time._

It will be different. This time.

How often had those words been said in his childhood? And, later, as an adult, how often had Ray said that very same thing to Yelina? To an angry Horatio, when promising to be a better husband to his wife, father to his son?

Like father, like son. _It will be different this time._

Unbidden, the memory came on full force and Horatio could almost smell the scent of long-ago marigolds and feel the dying heat of a particular June day many summers ago. He'd been... what? Thirteen? It had come to him, that certain summer, that he needed his own space, a place where he could hide out with his precious books and escape the sounds coming from within his own house.

There had been a tree in the backyard of their old row house. Most of the small yard was cemented over, with just a few clay pots scattered about, filled with his mother's struggling petunias and marigolds. The Caine Family Garden. Of a sort. The dismal flowers worked hard to be something they were not. So did his mother.

Also struggling was the tree, an old warrior of many years' standing. Horatio remembered once assuming the role of William Tell, and standing Raymond up against that tree, attempting to shoot an apple off his head with a toy bow and arrow set. He also remembered the punishment that ensued for that childish escapade. And how often they both used to charge at the tree with their plastic play swords, forcing it into the role of a towering, evil giant.

Oh, that wonderful old tree. It had burrowed its roots deep beneath the cracked concrete of the yard and its wizened old trunk reached upward for the sky, despite the concrete's attempts to restrain it. Horatio liked that old tree, liked its resiliency. It was important to be resilient. He knew that, even as a child.

Wistfully, Horatio remembered how he'd managed to winsomely coerce from Mr. Mueller some planks of scarred-up, inferior lumber. The old man owned the small lumberyard in town. Mueller had always liked Horatio; as a boy, he used to help the old man out after school sometimes, tidying up the place, doing odds and ends. The old fellow had been happy to give the boy the beat-up old wood; it wasn't as if he'd sell it for top dollar anyway.

Excitement had danced in Raymond's eyes when Horatio explained he was going to build a small shack up in the tree.

_A fort! You're building a fort! This'll be great! I want to help!_

_Well, you can't. This isn't a fort. It's my fortress._

_What's a fortress?_ asked the boy, not understanding the difference between the two words.

_It's a place for me to get away and read. Be by myself._

_But I like to get away and read. I can be with you while we be by ourselves!_

_You've never read a book in your life! And how can we be by ourselves if we're together?_

The boy had looked crestfallen, and Horatio had experienced a sudden sense of shame. The kid didn't have many friends - the boys in the neighborhood were older, and the kids his own age were girls.

Relenting, he said, _Okay, okay. You can help. And you can use it, too - but you have to keep quiet, and don't bring any other kids up there. Got it?_

_Yeah, I got it! _

The kid's grateful eagerness had embarrassed Horatio and he said roughly, _And don't fall out on your head. You can be such a doofus sometimes._

Their father had come out the back door and sat down in a webbed folding chair near one of the clay pots. He'd taken off his work-shirt, and sat there in his undershirt, a cold bottle of beer in his hand. _What are you boys up to?_

_We're going to build a fort_, his brother had replied.

_Are you, now? Well, that's a grand idea, boyo. Horatio, you know how to do this?_

Warily, he'd replied, _I think I can figure it out._

_Well, now... maybe you can, and maybe you can't. Might not be a bad idea to have your Da lend you a hand, hey?_ He had sat the bottle down next to his chair and, thinking, looked down at the lumber. _Now, here is what we need to do..._

For the rest of that afternoon, the two boys had worked alongside their father, who provided instruction and helped them nail the planks together. _You've got to have a plan, boys_, he stated, not for the first time in Horatio's memory. _You don't have a plan, you don't have nothing._

By early evening, a ramshackle wooden structure rested among the hardiest branches of the gnarled old tree, and three pieces of wood had been nailed to the trunk, allowing the boys to climb up inside the structure. Happily, they sat up there, looking down at their father. It had been a good day. Their father waved once and then turned and went inside the house.

_Look, Horatio! The lightning bugs! _His expression rapt, the boy leaned forward, and pointed outward, almost losing his balance. Horatio's restraining hand pulled him back and secured his seating.

_Don't be an idiot, Ray! You wanna fall out? You've seen 'em before._

_Not like this, not sitting up here in the sky! It's... it's fuckin' beautiful!_

_Hey, watch your mouth! You want Daddy to hear that? That's all we need!_

_He says it._

_Yeah, well, you better not let him hear YOU say it or it'll be your fuckin' ass!_

Raymond had giggled. For some reason unbeknownst to Horatio, it had always delighted the kid when Horatio cursed.

A few minutes passed while from their perch the boys silently watched the June bugs glowing sporadically in the darkness.

_Daddy was fun today, Horatio._

For the second time that day, a wariness had stolen over Horatio. _Yeah... today._

_He sure smiled a lot,_ said the boy, his voice hopeful. _Wasn't drinking much, either. Maybe it'll be different this time, huh? I think it will. It'll be different this time._

He'd looked at the kid, and unbearably, he'd felt his heart wrench at what he saw. There had been such a plaintive look on the seven-year old's face. No kid of seven should look that way, he remembered thinking. It hadn't occurred to him at the time that it was also true of a thirteen-year old.

Finally, he'd replied, _Yeah, maybe it will be different this time._

They continued to gaze out into the darkness, mesmerized by the dancing flashes of light against the opaqueness of the night sky, until at last they heard their mother's voice urging them inside.

Early the next morning, shortly after dawn, Horatio had been disturbed by the sound of something thudding hard against a concrete surface. Too tired to open his eyes, he ignored the sound, trying to get back to sleep.

THUD... THUD... THUD, THUD THUD

He awoke with a start, realizing with a sinking heart what he was hearing. Getting out of bed, he had scrambled over to the window and watched as his father was yanking with increasing ferocity the wooden planks from the tree. He seemed furious about something; his hair was mussed wildly and his shirt (the same as the day before!) was stained a brownish yellow. Whiskey? Beer?

Did it make any difference? The end result was the same.

His brother had come running into his room. _What's he doing, Horatio?_ His face had begun to streak with sudden tears. _Our fort... why is he doing this? Why, Horatio?_

_Because he can,_ Horatio had replied tiredly. _And because he's a bastard._

_Did we do something wrong? Is he punishing us?_

_Let it go, Ray,_ he had said, going back to bed and pulling the covers over his head. _Just let it go._

He'd forced himself to ignore the child's continuing presence, standing there, staring at his form under the covers. After several minutes, resigned, the boy turned away, his voice fading as he did so. _I thought it would be different this time._

Horatio shook his head at the memory, morosely recalling Ray's words. His soul troubled, he rose from the front step of his house. The dusk had finally faded into the blackness of night and, with it, the sense of being caught between two worlds. He turned toward the door to put the key in the lock, prepared now to allow the emptiness of the lonely house to embrace him.

Suddenly, a bitter twist turned the corner of his mouth downward as he recalled another reason for June's poignancy. _Father's Day._

Fathers and sons. Sons and fathers.

Kyle stuck in Afghanistan, trying to bring some semblance of order to his troubled life. Raymond's son down in Colombia, getting acquainted with Yelina's side of the family, trying to forget his last name was Caine.

And Raymond... dead. A brutal death. The death of a man always running away from something - or toward something. Ever optimistic that things could be different - this time. A victim of the childhood they'd shared? Probably.

He shivered. Maybe he'd give Frank a call. His old friend would probably be willing to stop by... there was a game on tonight. They could watch a couple of innings, share a few beers... escape the monotony of being two lonely men, vulnerable at this season in their lives.

About to push open the door, he paused a moment, turning once more to look out into the darkness. There they were, still out there. Capriciously lighting up the sky. Just as they had so many summers ago.

June bugs.

THE END


End file.
